It's My Secret, I Can Lie If I Want To
by DarkDefender89
Summary: Violet Parr has more secret than she thinks. In good time, she will find out. Read to find out more if I say anything else it will give it away. And: REVIEW. REVIEW, IF YOU WANT CHAPTER SIX! NO UPDATES until 6 DIFFERENT PEOPLE review!
1. Chapter 1

_**(A/N: Everything that happened in the movie happened except for the end: Violet doesn't wear the headband, she still wears black and gray, and she is still a loner/outcast.)**_

**It's My Secret, I Can Lie If I Want To**

**_Violet lied down on her stomach on her gray-ish silver eiderdown, lifting her eyes towards the ceiling, staring at it in a mesmerizing gaze. She had been in her room for hours, because she felt like being alone and away from all commotion. It was a Saturday. Almost a month had passed since her family had gone into the open, with their "disguises". Fighting crime. All Violet wanted, though, was to be normal. Her long, silky black hair fell over her violet eyes, caressing her cheek bone. She stood up and looked around her room, wondering what to do. She had already finished her homework. Lately, it had been becoming a lot easier, and she always finished it a lot quicker than she used to. She wondered if it signaled for anything unusual, but she decided it probably didn't. She was thirteen, after all. _**

**_She decided to run down the kitchen to get something to eat, but by the time she got down to the kitchen, she realized that she wasn't hungry. She ran back up to her room and paced back and forth, over and over again. When boredom struck, there was no winning. The weekend passed slowly, but it passed. It was a quiet weekend. People stayed inside; no one got hurt. There was no one to save: no one ran in front of cars, no one robbed banks, no one attempted homicide. That was unusual, because crime was usually high where the Parrs lived. Maybe they were scared away. But Violet Parr found that hard to believe._**

**_Monday came and school was as usual: Violet hid in the shadows, her black hair covering her face. She sat near the back of the classroom, and went to the library instead of going to lunch. No one noticed her, because even when she wasn't using her powers, she was invisible. Most of the time, she didn't mind. From the outside, she observed the stupid cliché rules, and hated them. Most people denied them but followed them like slaves, robots. They were hypnotized, brainwashed. And Violet Parr had moved from place to place long enough to know that every school had the invisible rules. Violet refused to follow them; she refused to be hypnotized, even if that meant she had to be a loner…even if it meant she couldn't have friends. Because what "friends" meant, nowadays, she didn't want it. She didn't want a two-faced friend; a friend who wears a façade every day and consciously changes herself to "fit in". Sure, Violet did want to be normal, but she didn't want to be a two-faced bitch that cared more about appearances and reputations than anything else. No, Violet Parr didn't want that at all._**

_**When she got home from school, she accidentally heard her parents talking about her. She didn't mean to stay and listen, but she couldn't pull herself away.**_

"_**We have to tell her eventually. You know she'll find out soon enough on her own."**_

"**_I thought we could hide it. But I guess we were wrong. It turns out she is different from us, after all."_**

"_**How would you know that?"**_

"_**It's only a matter of time, Bob."**_

**_Violet stopped listening. What were they keeping from her? What secret about her did they decide not to tell her? Violet thought she had the right to know. She decided to wait and see if her parents would tell her. Days and days turned into weeks and weeks, and they still hadn't told her. _**

**_While she was walking home from school, she saw a man tackling someone, a knife in his hands. He had long, rough dark hair and a tough-looking face. Out of instinct, Violet quickly put her costume and mask on and ran over to the fighting scene to interfere. She started to use her force field to force the knife out of the attacker's hands, but the force-field didn't stop the attacker. It only made the attacker angry. So Violet did what anyone would do, out of instinct. She started kicking the man, hard. She didn't expect the man to fall over, unconscious. She didn't expect that at all. She wasn't that strong. The man must have been on drugs, or something, and already weak. But something wouldn't let Violet dismiss it like that. Violet walked over to the person the man had been attacking. "Are you alright?" she asked._**

"**_I am now," he said, struggling to pick himself off the ground. The victim had long, wild bleached blond hair and a slim, muscular, wiry body. He looked strong; how could the attacker have overcome him like that? Violet realized that the attacker must have been really, really strong. Violet looked into the victim's scary blue eyes. Something about them wouldn't let her pull away._**

"_**That was some kick," the boy said, finally standing up. There was a huge gash in his arm.**_

"**_Oh, it was nothing," Violet said modestly. Then she looked down and realized the attacker was still lying there, unconscious. She looked down and saw blood inundating his body, streaming out of his side. Violet bent down, and she realized that the attacker was not unconscious. He was dead._**

"_**I don't think it was nothing," the boy said, holding onto his arm tightly, in pain. After a while, he said, "If you hadn't have came to my rescue, I'd probably dead right now. The knife, it was about to go into my chest, but then somehow it reflected and stabbed into my arm instead."**_

**_Violet looked around, and realized that the attacker wasn't alone. There were two more, that looked almost exactly like him. They had the same long, tangly hair; they had the same rough-looking faces. Violet realized that they also had silver eyes. With out thinking, Violet grabbed rope from her backpack and tied the two villains together, put them by the fallen enemy, and called the cops. As soon as they got there and the boy was safe, Violet became invisible and snuck away from the situation, so there would be as less media coverage as possible. Violet always did the right thing and saved people when people needed to be saved, but she didn't like the publicity. In fact, she hated the publicity._**

_**When she got home, she decided to dismiss the fact that she was able to take the three villains down single-handedly. She decided to dismiss her kick as just adrenaline. Deep down, she knew it probably wasn't, but she didn't want to think about it.**_

**_The next day in school, there was a new kid. Shocker, shocker: it was the boy she had saved. It was a good thing, Violet thought, that she had been wearing a mask that covered her eyes, because Violet didn't want the whole school finding out her secret. She didn't even want the new kid to find out her secret. It was her secret, after all, and she could lie if she wanted to. During lunch, she made herself invisible and decided to spy on the stupid cliché nonsense. Every once in a while, she did this. It was amusing in a parody-ish way, watching the stupidity. Sometimes, Violet found it hard to believe how stupid they were. _**

**_She watched the bitch-queens talk about make-up and their plans to hurt the weak, stuff like that. Stuff they said every day. Usually, they just talked about how much of a loser everyone that wasn't in their group were, their plans for the night, boys they liked, and stuff like that. Nothing unusual, for the bitch-queens. That was what Violet referred to them as. Sometimes, she changed it around a bit and called them the bitch-witches. Or you could call them what they were: cheerleaders, pom-poms, people who talked in really high voices and laughed at people who didn't, people who didn't care about their grades and laughed at people who did, people who wear tight, stereotypical outfits and laughed at people who didn't conform….the list could go one forever and ever. It probably wouldn't even fit on a piece of paper that fit perfectly in between Earth and Mars. But Violet decided to stop there. Because this time, Violet noticed that they were talking about something different: the new kid. Violet wondered what they were saying, but she decided she didn't want to find out. At least, not now. Because it was one of two things, if they were bothering to talk about him at all: either they saw him as someone really hot and popular and a must-have, or they saw him as a weird crazy freak. . Because for the bitch-witches, there was no in-between. There were only extremes. And Violet knew that she fit into the freak category…the invisible category….the loner category._**

_**Violet sighed, and stopped listening. She didn't want to find out what category the new kid fit into yet, because she didn't like the rules. She purposely defied them, and really, she felt like she didn't fit in any category.**_

_**As days passed, though, it became obvious that the new kid was not one of the populars. He didn't act like a freak, either. Well, at least not by Violet's standards. She began to notice him more and more. He usually wore shorts and a T-shirt, even though it was January. Violet realized that he didn't even wear shoes. Yeah, by the school's unseen rules, he was probably a freak; a weirdo. But Violet wasn't too sure.**_

**_About a week after the last incident happened, something else happened. During gym class, everything was becoming easier and easier, just like her homework had been. The students were asked to climb the rope, which she usually hated. Something told her it would be easier this time, but she was wrong. Way wrong. Because when she started climbing the rope, she started to feel dizzy. Suddenly, she saw skeletons. Skeletons. She realized that they were the skeletons of her classmates. Violet panicked, wondering what was happening to her. People couldn't just see through solid objects like that. She crashed to the ground, but when she fell, it didn't even hurt. She lay there, curled up in a ball, afraid of herself, wondering what happened. The teacher asked her if she was alright, and she said yes and slowly stood up, and the teacher said that she failed the assignment. It was so unfair. _**

_**After school that day, she was hiding in the bushes, purposely outside of the crowd, far away from everybody else. She panicked when she saw someone walking towards her, and she became invisible. As he came closer she realized it was the new kid. He was tall, with bleached blond hair and a wiry body, like she had described before. And his eyes were amazing, mesmerizable. Stop it, Violet thought to herself, but she couldn't help it. She saw two of the jocks and one of the bitch-witches corner the new kid. They started taunting him. The bitch-witch poured a red smoothie on his bare feet and said in her creepy high voice, "Oops, did I spill that?" She laughed, walking away. The jocks stood there, taunting him, mimicking him, and then, out of the clear blue, he punched one of the jocks, hard. Then he ran. He was fast. No where near as fast as her brother, but fast, all the same. Not "super" fast, of course. But, Violet mused, he was probably one of the fastest non-supers alive. **_

_**Once he was out of sight, Violet walked home, thinking about what has been happening the past few weeks, and wondering if it had anything to do with the secret her parents weren't telling her.**_

_**It was her secret; she had the right to know.**_


	2. Chapter 2

**_Once Violet arrived at home, she ran up the stairs and took out her homework. For math, she had to do 25 problems. It took her barely any time at all; ten minutes tops. For English, she was supposed to read an essay by Ralph Waldo Emerson: (A/N: If you don't want to read the whole essay, I have italicized the parts that will be used for this story! But its an interesting essay; a good read if you feel like it!)_**

ESSAY VIII _Heroism_

In the elder English dramaetcher, there is a constant  
recognition of gentility, as if a noble behaviour were as easily  
marked in the society of their age, as color is in our American  
population. When any Rodrigo, Pedro, or Valerio enters, though he be  
a stranger, the duke or governor exclaims, This is a gentleman, —  
and proffers civilities without end; but all the rest are slag and  
refuse. In harmony with this delight in personal advantages, there  
is in their plays a certain heroic cast of character and dialogue, —  
as in Bonduca, Sophocles, the Mad Lover, the Double Marriage, —  
wherein the speaker is so earnest and cordial, and on such deep  
grounds of character, that the dialogue, on the slightest additional  
incident in the plot, rises naturally into poetry. Among many texts,  
take the following. The Roman Martius has conquered Athens, — all  
but the invincible spirits of Sophocles, the duke of Athens, and  
Dorigen, his wife. The beauty of the latter inflames Martius, and he  
seeks to save her husband; but Sophocles will not ask his life,  
although assured that a word will save him, and the execution of both  
proceeds.

"Valerius. Bid thy wife farewell.

Soph. No, I will take no leave. My Dorigen,  
Yonder, above, 'bout Ariadne's crown,  
My spirit shall hover for thee. Prithee, haste.

Dor. Stay, Sophocles, — with this tie up my sight;  
Let not soft nature so transformed be,  
And lose her gentler sexed humanity,  
To make me see my lord bleed. So, 't is well;  
Never one object underneath the sun  
Will I behold before my Sophocles:  
Farewell; now teach the Romans how to die.

Mar. Dost know what 't is to die?

Soph. Thou dost not, Martius,  
And, therefore, not what 't is to live; to die  
Is to begin to live. It is to end P372p1  
An old, stale, weary work, and to commence  
A newer and a better. 'T is to leave  
Deceitful knaves for the society  
Of gods and goodness. Thou thyself must part  
At last from all thy garlands, pleasures, triumphs,  
And prove thy fortitude what then 't will do.

Val. But art not grieved nor vexed to leave thy life thus?

Soph. Why should I grieve or vex for being sent  
To them I ever loved best? Now I'll kneel,  
But with my back toward thee; 't is the last duty  
This trunk can do the gods.

Mar. Strike, strike, Valerius,  
Or Martius' heart will leap out at his mouth:  
This is a man, a woman! Kiss thy lord,  
And live with all the freedom you were wont.  
O love! thou doubly hast afflicted me  
With virtue and with beauty. Treacherous heart,  
My hand shall cast thee quick into my urn,  
Ere thou transgress this knot of piety.

Val. What ails my brother?

Soph. Martius, O Martius,  
Thou now hast found a way to conquer me.

Dor. O star of Rome! what gratitude can speak  
Fit words to follow such a deed as this?

Mar. This admirable duke, Valerius,  
With his disdain of fortune and of death,  
Captived himself, has captivated me,  
And though my arm hath ta'en his body here,  
His soul hath subjugated Martius' soul.  
By Romulus, he is all soul, I think;  
He hath no flesh, and spirit cannot be gyved;  
Then we have vanquished nothing; he is free,  
And Martius walks now in captivity."

I do not readily remember any poem, play, sermon, novel, or  
oration, that our press vents in the last few years, which goes to  
the same tune. We have a great many flutes and flageolets, but not  
often the sound of any fife. Yet, Wordsworth's Laodamia, and the ode  
of "Dion," and some sonnets, have a certain noble music; and Scott  
will sometimes draw a stroke like the protrait of Lord Evandale,  
given by Balfour of Burley. Thomas Carlyle, with his natural taste  
for what is manly and daring in character, has suffered no heroic  
trait in his favorites to drop from his biographical and historical  
pictures. Earlier, Robert Burns has given us a song or two. In the  
Harleian Miscellanies, there is an account of the battle of Lutzen,  
which deserves to be read. And Simon Ockley's History of the  
Saracens recounts the prodigies of individual valor with admiration,  
all the more evident on the part of the narrator, that he seems to  
think that his place in Christian Oxford requires of him some proper  
protestations of abhorrence. But, if we explore the literature of  
Heroism, we shall quickly come to Plutarch, who is its Doctor and  
historian. To him we owe the Brasidas, the Dion, the Epaminondas,  
the Scipio of old, and I must think we are more deeply indebted to  
him than to all the ancient writers. Each of his "Lives" is a  
refutation to the despondency and cowardice of our religious and  
political theorists. A wild courage, a Stoicism not of the schools,  
but of the blood, shines in every anecdote, and has given that book  
its immense fame.

We need books of this tart cathartic virtue, more than books of  
political science, or of private economy. Life is a festival only to  
the wise. Seen from the nook and chimney-side of prudence, it wears  
a ragged and dangerous front. The violations of the laws of nature  
by our predecessors and our contemporaries are punished in us also.  
**_The disease and deformity around us certify the infraction of  
natural, intellectual, and moral laws, and often violation on  
violation to breed such compound misery._** A lock-jaw that bends a  
man's head back to his heels, hydrophobia, that makes him bark at his  
wife and babes, insanity, that makes him eat grass; war, plague,  
cholera, famine, indicate a certain ferocity in nature, which, as it  
had its inlet by human crime, must have its outlet by human  
suffering. **_Unhappily, no man exists who has not in his own person  
become, to some amount, a stockholder in the sin, and so made himself  
liable to a share in the expiation._**

_**Our culture, therefore, must not omit the arming of the man.  
Let him hear in season, that he is born into the state of war, and  
that the commonwealth and his own well-being require that he should  
not go dancing in the weeds of peace, but warned, self-collected, and  
neither defying nor dreading the thunder, let him take both  
reputation and life in his hand, and, with perfect urbanity, dare the  
gibbet and the mob by the absolute truth of his speech, and the  
rectitude of his behaviour. **_

**_Towards all this external evil, the man within the breast  
assumes a warlike attitude, and affirms his ability to cope  
single-handed with the infinite army of enemies. To this military  
attitude of the soul we give the name of Heroism. Its rudest form is  
the contempt for safety and ease, which makes the attractiveness of  
war._** It is a self-trust which slights the restraints of prudence, in  
the plenitude of its energy and power to repair the harms it may  
suffer. The hero is a mind of such balance that **_no disturbances can  
shake his will, but pleasantly, and, as it were, merrily, he advances  
to his own music, alike in frightful alarms and in the tipsy mirth of  
universal dissoluteness. _**There is somewhat not philosophical in  
heroism; there is somewhat not holy in it; it seems not to know that  
other souls are of one texture with it; it has pride; it is the  
extreme of individual nature. Nevertheless, we must profoundly  
revere it. There is somewhat in great actions, which does not allow  
us to go behind them. **_Heroism feels and never reasons, and therefore  
is always right_**; and although a different breeding, different  
religion, and greater intellectual activity would have modified or  
even reversed the particular action, yet for the hero that thing he  
does is the highest deed, and is not open to the censure of  
philosophers or divines. It is the avowal of the unschooled man,  
that he finds a quality in him that is negligent of expense, of  
health, of life, of danger, of hatred, of reproach, and knows that  
his will is higher and more excellent than all actual and all  
possible antagonists.

**_Heroism works in contradiction to the voice of mankind, and in  
contradiction, for a time, to the voice of the great and good.  
Heroism is an obedience to a secret impulse of an individual's  
character. Now to no other man can its wisdom appear as it does to  
him, for every man must be supposed to see a little farther on his  
own proper path than any one else._** Therefore, just and wise men take  
umbrage A/N: it means offense at his act, until after some little time be past: then they  
see it to be in unison with their acts. All prudent men see that the  
action is clean contrary to a sensual prosperity; for every heroic  
act measures itself by its contempt of some external good. But it  
finds its own success at last, and then the prudent also extol A/N: it means praise.

**_Self-trust is the essence of heroism. It is the state of the  
soul at war, and its ultimate objects are the last defiance of  
falsehood and wrong, and the power to bear all that can be inflicted  
by evil agents._** It speaks the truth, and it is just, generous,  
hospitable, temperate, scornful of petty calculations, and scornful  
of being scorned. It persists; it is of an **_undaunted boldness_**, and  
of a fortitude not to be wearied out. Its jest is the littleness of  
common life. That false prudence which dotes on health and wealth is  
the butt and merriment of heroism. **_Heroism, like Plotinus, is almost  
ashamed of its body._** What shall it say, then, to the sugar-plums and  
cats'-cradles, to the toilet, compliments, quarrels, cards, and  
custard, which rack the wit of all society. What joys has kind  
nature provided for us dear creatures! There seems to be no interval  
between greatness and meanness. When the spirit is not master of the  
world, then it is its dupe. Yet the little man takes the great hoax  
so innocently, works in it so headlong and believing, is born red,  
and dies gray, arranging his toilet, attending on his own health,  
laying traps for sweet food and strong wine, setting his heart on a  
horse or a rifle, made happy with a little gossip or a little praise,  
that the great soul cannot choose but laugh at such earnest nonsense.  
"Indeed, these humble considerations make me out of love with  
greatness. What a disgrace is it to me to take note how many pairs  
of silk stockings thou hast, namely, these and those that were the  
peach-colored ones; or to bear the inventory of thy shirts, as one  
for superfluity, and one other for use!"

Citizens, thinking after the laws of arithmetic, consider the  
inconvenience of receiving strangers at their fireside, reckon  
narrowly the loss of time and the unusual display: the soul of a  
better quality thrusts back the unseasonable economy into the vaults  
of life, and says, I will obey the God, and the sacrifice and the  
fire he will provide. Ibn Haukal, the Arabian geographer, describes  
a heroic extreme in the hospitality of Sogd, in Bukharia. "When I  
was in Sogd, I saw a great building, like a palace, the gates of  
which were open and fixed back to the wall with large nails. I asked  
the reason, and was told that the house had not been shut, night or  
day, for a hundred years. Strangers may present themselves at any  
hour, and in whatever number; the master has amply provided for the  
reception of the men and their animals, and is never happier than  
when they tarry for some time. Nothing of the kind have I seen in  
any other country." The magnanimous know very well that they who give  
time, or money, or shelter, to the stranger — so it be done for  
love, and not for ostentation — do, as it were, put God under  
obligation to them, so perfect are the compensations of the universe.  
In some way the time they seem to lose is redeemed, and the pains  
they seem to take remunerate themselves. These men fan the flame of  
human love, and raise the standard of civil virtue among mankind.  
But hospitality must be for service, and not for show, or it pulls  
down the host. The brave soul rates itself too high to value itself  
by the splendor of its table and draperies. It gives what it hath,  
and all it hath, but its own majesty can lend a better grace to  
bannocks and fair water than belong to city feasts.

The temperance of the hero proceeds from the same wish to do no  
dishonor to the worthiness he has. But he loves it for its elegancy,  
not for its austerity. It seems not worth his while to be solemn,  
and denounce with bitterness flesh-eating or wine-drinking, the use  
of tobacco, or opium, or tea, or silk, or gold. A great man scarcely  
knows how he dines, how he dresses; but without railing or precision,  
his living is natural and poetic. John Eliot, the Indian Apostle,  
drank water, and said of wine, — "It is a noble, generous liquor,  
and we should be humbly thankful for it, but, as I remember, water  
was made before it." Better still is the temperance of King David,  
who poured out on the ground unto the Lord the water which three of  
his warriors had brought him to drink, at the peril of their lives.

It is told of Brutus, that when he fell on his sword, after the  
battle of Philippi, he quoted a line of Euripides, — "O virtue! I  
have followed thee through life, and I find thee at last but a  
shade." I doubt not the hero is slandered by this report. **_The heroic  
soul does not sell its justice and its nobleness. It does not ask to  
dine nicely, and to sleep warm. The essence of greatness is the  
perception that virtue is enough. Poverty is its ornament. It does  
not need plenty, and can very well abide its loss._**

But that which takes my fancy most, in the heroic class, is the  
good-humor and hilarity they exhibit. It is a height to which common  
duty can very well attain, to suffer and to dare with solemnity. But  
these rare souls set opinion, success, and life, at so cheap a rate,  
that they will not soothe their enemies by petitions, or the show of  
sorrow, but wear their own habitual greatness. Scipio, charged with  
peculation, refuses to do himself so great a disgrace as to wait for  
justification, though he had the scroll of his accounts in his hands,  
but tears it to pieces before the tribunes. Socrates's condemnation  
of himself to be maintained in all honor in the Prytaneum, during his  
life, and Sir Thomas More's playfulness at the scaffold, are of the  
same strain. In Beaumont and Fletcher's "Sea Voyage," Juletta tells  
the stout captain and his company, —

Jul. Why, slaves, 't is in our power to hang ye.  
Master. Very likely,  
'T is in our powers, then, to be hanged, and scorn ye."

These replies are sound and whole. Sport is the bloom and glow  
of a perfect health. The great will not condescend to take any thing  
seriously; all must be as cheerful as the song of a canary, though it were  
the building of cities, or the eradication of old and foolish  
churches and nations, which have cumbered the earth long thousands of  
years. Simple hearts put all the history and customs of this world  
behind them, and play their own game in innocent defiance of the  
Blue-Laws of the world; and such would appear, could we see the human  
race assembled in vision, like little children frolicking together;  
though, to the eyes of mankind at large, they wear a stately and  
solemn garb of works and influences.

The interest these fine stories have for us, **_the power of a  
romance over the boy who grasps the forbidden book under his bench at  
school_**, our delight in the hero, is the main fact to our purpose.  
All these great and transcendent properties are ours. If we dilate  
in beholding the Greek energy, the Roman pride, it is that we are  
already domesticating the same sentiment. Let us find room for this  
great guest in our small houses. The first step of worthiness will  
be to disabuse us of our superstitious associations with places and  
times, with number and size. Why should these words, Athenian,  
Roman, Asia, and England, so tingle in the ear? Where the heart is,  
there the muses, there the gods sojourn, and not in any geography of  
fame. Massachusetts, Connecticut River, and Boston Bay, you think  
paltry places, and the ear loves names of foreign and classic  
topography. But here we are; and, if we will tarry a little, we may  
come to learn that here is best. See to it, only, that thyself is  
here; — and art and nature, hope and fate, friends, angels, and the  
Supreme Being, shall not be absent from the chamber where thou  
sittest. Epaminondas, brave and affectionate, does not seem to us to  
need Olympus to die upon, nor the Syrian sunshine. He lies very well  
where he is. The Jerseys were handsome ground enough for Washington  
to tread, and London streets for the feet of Milton. A great man  
makes his climate genial in the imagination of men, and its air the  
beloved element of all delicate spirits. That country is the  
fairest, which is inhabited by the noblest minds. The pictures which  
fill the imagination in reading the actions of Pericles, Xenophon,  
Columbus, Bayard, Sidney, Hampden, teach us how needlessly mean our  
life is, that we, by the depth of our living, should deck it with  
more than regal or national splendor, and act on principles that  
should interest man and nature in the length of our days.

We have seen or heard of many extraordinary young men, who  
never ripened, or whose performance in actual life was not  
extraordinary. When we see their air and mien, when we hear them  
speak of society, of books, of religion, we admire their superiority,  
they seem to throw contempt on our entire polity and social state;  
theirs is the tone of a youthful giant, who is sent to work  
revolutions. But they enter an active profession, and the forming  
Colossus shrinks to the common size of man. The magic they used was  
the ideal tendencies, which always make the Actual ridiculous; but  
the tough world had its revenge the moment they put their horses of  
the sun to plough in its furrow. They found no example and no  
companion, and their heart fainted. What then? The lesson they gave  
in their first aspirations is yet true; and a better valor and a  
purer truth shall one day organize their belief. Or why should a  
woman liken herself to any historical woman, and think, because  
Sappho, or Sevigne, or De Stael, or the cloistered souls who have had  
genius and cultivation, do not satisfy the imagination and the serene  
Themis, none can, — certainly not she. Why not? She has a new and  
unattempted problem to solve, perchance that of the happiest nature  
that ever bloomed. **_Let the maiden, with erect soul, walk serenely on  
her way, accept the hint of each new experience, search in turn all  
the objects that solicit her eye, that she may learn the power and  
the charm of her new-born being, which is the kindling of a new dawn  
in the recesses of space. The fair girl, who repels interference by  
a decided and proud choice of influences, so careless of pleasing, so  
wilful and lofty, inspires every beholder with somewhat of her own  
nobleness. The silent heart encourages her; O friend, never strike  
sail to a fear! Come into port greatly, or sail with God the seas.  
Not in vain you live, for every passing eye is cheered and refined by  
the vision. _**

The characteristic of heroism is its persistency. All men have  
wandering impulses, fits, and starts of generosity. **_But when you  
have chosen your part, abide by it, and do not weakly try to  
reconcile yourself with the world. The heroic cannot be the common,  
nor the common the heroic. Yet we have the weakness to expect the  
sympathy of people in those actions whose excellence is that they  
outrun sympathy, and appeal to a tardy justice. If you would serve  
your brother, because it is fit for you to serve him, do not take  
back your words when you find that prudent people do not commend you.  
_**Adhere to your own act, and congratulate yourself if you have done  
something strange and extravagant, and broken the monotony of a  
decorous age. It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a  
young person, — "Always do what you are afraid to do." A simple,  
manly character need never make an apology, but should regard its  
past action with the calmness of Phocion, when he admitted that the  
event of the battle was happy, yet did not regret his dissuasion from  
the battle.

There is no weakness or exposure for which we cannot find  
consolation in the thought, — this is a part of my constitution,  
part of my relation and office to my fellow-creature. Has nature  
covenanted with me that I should never appear to disadvantage, never  
make a ridiculous figure? Let us be generous of our dignity, as well  
as of our money. Greatness once and for ever has done with opinion.  
We tell our charities, not because we wish to be praised for them,  
not because we think they have great merit, but for our  
justification. It is a capital blunder; as you discover, when  
another man recites his charities.

To speak the truth, even with some austerity, to live with some  
rigor of temperance, or some extremes of generosity, seems to be an  
asceticism which common good-nature would appoint to those who are at  
ease and in plenty, in sign that they feel a brotherhood with the  
great multitude of suffering men. And not only need we breathe and  
exercise the soul by assuming the penalties of abstinence, of debt,  
of solitude, of unpopularity, but it behooves the wise man to look  
with a bold eye into those rarer dangers which sometimes invade men,  
and to familiarize himself with disgusting forms of disease, with  
sounds of execration, and the vision of violent death.

Times of heroism are generally times of terror, but the day  
never shines in which this element may not work. The circumstances  
of man, we say, are historically somewhat better in this country, and  
at this hour, than perhaps ever before. More freedom exists for  
culture. It will not now run against an axe at the first step out of  
the beaten track of opinion. But whoso is heroic will always find  
crises to try his edge. Human virtue demands her champions and  
martyrs, and the trial of persecution always proceeds. It is but the  
other day that the brave Lovejoy gave his breast to the bullets of a  
mob, for the rights of free speech and opinion, and died when it was  
better not to live.

I see not any road of perfect peace which a man can walk, but  
after the counsel of his own bosom. Let him quit too much  
association, let him go home much, and stablish himself in those  
courses he approves. The unremitting retention of simple and high  
sentiments in obscure duties is hardening the character to that  
temper which will work with honor, if need be, in the tumult, or on  
the scaffold. Whatever outrages have happened to men may befall a  
man again; and very easily in a republic, if there appear any signs  
of a decay of religion. Coarse slander, fire, tar and feathers, and  
the gibbet, the youth may freely bring home to his mind, and with  
what sweetness of temper he can, and inquire how fast he can fix his  
sense of duty, braving such penalties, whenever it may please the  
next newspaper and a sufficient number of his neighbours to pronounce  
his opinions incendiary.

It may calm the apprehension of calamity in the most  
susceptible heart to see how quick a bound nature has set to the  
utmost infliction of malice. We rapidly approach a brink over which  
no enemy can follow us.

"Let them rave:  
Thou art quiet in thy grave."

In the gloom of our ignorance of what shall be, in the hour  
when we are deaf to the higher voices, who does not envy those who  
have seen safely to an end their manful endeavour? Who that sees the  
meanness of our politics, but inly congratulates Washington that he  
is long already wrapped in his shroud, and for ever safe; that he was  
laid sweet in his grave, the hope of humanity not yet subjugated in  
him? **_Who does not sometimes envy the good and brave, who are no more  
to suffer from the tumults of the natural world, and await with  
curious complacency the speedy term of his own conversation with  
finite nature? And yet the love that will be annihilated sooner than  
treacherous has already made death impossible, and affirms itself no  
mortal, but a native of the deeps of absolute and inextinguishable  
being. _**(Ralph Waldo Emerson).

**_Violet read the essay. She was glad the teacher had picked an essay on something she actually had passion for. It wasn't really that hard to understand, because Violet had always liked philosophy. It came naturally to her. To her, the essay meant that you shouldn't turn back on your word and be a hypocrite-if you say you don't need luxury, then don't later demand for luxury. She also thought it meant that endurance of pain was important. She also thought it meant that people who tend to be different and outside of society are more likely to be heroes, and Violet liked that, because it was true. She remembered an adage she had once read, by Ralph Waldo Emerson: "He that stands alone, the Universe stands with him." It meant that the power was put into the hands of the people who stand outside, and who are willing to do so. Violet didn't like not being normal, but every night when she went to bed, she was happy with whom she was. When she looked in the mirror, everything made perfect sense. _**

**_Violet smiled and put the essay away, and realized that two whole hours passed by. She had really spent that much time thinking about Emerson? 'Wow,' she thought to herself. It was almost 5:00 p.m. _**

_**The next day after school, the new kid cornered her by that same bush as the other day before she had a chance to slip away quietly.**_

"_**I've seen you before," he said matter-of-factly. Oh no! Did he recognize her from the day she had saved him as 'Ultravi'?**_

"_**No you haven't," Violet said bashfully. She knew who he was, of course. Well, she didn't know his name. He wasn't in any of her classes, so she didn't know what his name was. "I've seen you around though," Violet said, "You're the new kid, aren't you?"**_

"_**I guess," the boy replied nonchalantly.**_

"_**Well," Violet replied, a little irritated, "Do you have a name?"**_

"_**Nope," the boy replied.**_

"_**Everyone has a name," Violet said.**_

"_**Not me," the boy replied.**_

"_**What do the teachers call you?" Violet asked.**_

"_**They don't. I don't go to school here," he said.**_

"_**But I've seen you around…um, here," Violet replied, confused.**_

"_**I'd tell you my secret, but then I'd have to kill you," the boy said wittily.**_

"_**Ha ha, like you could," Violet said half amused half angrily. But she had to admit, this boy was getting more and more interesting day after day. Did he really not have a name?**_

_**Suddenly the boy ran off, his bare feet dirty, the wind racing against him blowing his wild hair in the air. He abruptly stopped, looking back at Violet. He stared straight into her eyes, and whispered, "The game's on." Violet didn't think she was supposed to hear it. He was so far away already. But she could. But it was soft, below decibel level. How was that possible? Was she just imagining it?**_

_**But if she wasn't….**_

**_A sly smile crept up Violet's face. If she wasn't imagining things, she had three newfound abilities: superstregth, x-ray vision, and super hearing. As much as she wished she was normal, she had to admit this was getting interesting. Did this have something to do with the secret her parents were keeping from her?_**

_**Violet decided she needed to find out what else she could do. Or if she was just going crazy. What if the bare-foot boy was no more than a figment of her imagination….**_


	3. Chapter 3

**_Violet felt like she was going crazy. She was sure of it. She was hallucinating. She wanted to scream, all of her emotions trapped inside. She felt like none of them would be able to resurface alive, so she kept them in, where they belonged. She walked home as slowly as possible, because she honestly didn't feel like being around her parents. If they were lying to her, then she didn't want to have anything to do with them. She was angry. She had a right to know whatever secret they were keeping from her, because, after all, it was about her, wasn't it? Violet closed her eyes and felt the sun rays beat against her pale skin. It felt good, standing still and being absorbed by rays of purity. Violet looked up at the sky and smiled. According to Emerson, the Universe stood by her side. Did it? It felt like the sun was shining for her; providing light for her to follow._**

_**But would the Universe still stand by her side if she went crazy? She was going crazy. She could feel it in all of her bones. Emerson didn't know crap. He didn't live during the same time period; things have changed. 'The Universe isn't on my side. No one is on my side. It would be foolish to believe the contrary,' Violet thought sadly and wearily. She was only thirteen, and she already felt jaded. By what? Who knows, but she couldn't shake the feeling from her bones. It gave her the shivers, making her want to just run away and never come back. She could escape the world, and never have to face anything ever again. But Violet wasn't a coward; she knew what her destiny was. She was a hero; she had to stand strong even when she didn't feel strong. She had to act like a hero, and do her job the right way, even when she didn't feel like a hero.**_

**_But what if she was going crazy? Could she still be a hero, then? What if this was just the beginning of something big? 'What if the secret my parents are keeping from me,' Violet thought, 'is that I have Schizophrenia or something like that??' Violet grimaced at the idea. What was going to happen to her? Violet continued walking home, mad at herself that she had scared herself. She started running, panicked. She ran out in the street to cross over to her side of the street, when suddenly a huge car came out of no where, speeding at about 60 mph. She didn't have enough time to move out of the way. 'Shit, I'm going to die now,' Violet thought, not having enough time to panic. She closed her eyes. In less than a split second, the car went crashing into her body._**

_**Time didn't stop. **_

_**Bells didn't ring.**_

_**A dark demon didn't come reaching angrily for her life.**_

_**There were no screams.**_

_**There was no pain.**_

_**There was no blood (well, not hers).**_

**_Violet realized in shock that she was not dead. Out of instinct, she turned invisible to save her secret, and then she focused her gaze to the car that had crashed into her. The whole front of the car was crushed, smashed to smithereens. HOW had that happened? Violet looked inside the window, and became even more shocked. There was no one driving the car. NO ONE WAS IN THE CAR. How does a car move at 60 miles per hour without someone driving it? 'That's it, I'm wacko,' Violet thought. She looked inside the car and saw blood on the driver's seat. Had the driver managed to get away in less than a split second and not be seen? But it was more than that. She still would have seen a blur. If someone was in the car, he or she must have teleported or something like that._**

_**On her cell-phone, Violet dialed the non-emergency number for the police and informed them about the car crash, and then she walked the rest of the way home. When she got home, she heard her parents talking, so she decided to eavesdrop.**_

"**_She's not going to find out about him. We live in Florida. His origin was…I don't remember, but far away from here _**(A/N: I don't know where they are supposed to live but this is AU anyways and Florida fits the plot)**_. She won't run into him."_**

"_**But why can't she know about her cousin, Bob?"**_

"_**They were sent here for different reasons."**_

"_**That's nonsense, Bob, and you know that. They were both sent here for one reason: so they would not get killed."**_

"_**I thought they couldn't get killed. Didn't the note say that?"**_

"_**Well I guess they could, where they came from. There are probably beings stronger than them, somewhere in the universe."**_

_**Violet listened, invisible and behind a shadow. What her mother said next really shocked her. **_

"_**Bob, we really need to tell her the truth." **_

"_**Not yet, Helen." **_

"**_Eventually she'll find out on her own that she's FROM A DIFFERENT PLANET!"_**

"**_Okay, then you tell her about Krypton."_**

"_**Fine, I will."**_

_**Violet decided to reappear. She had a right to know. She would demand to know. Both of her parents were shocked to see her standing there.**_

"_**How much did you here?" her father asked.**_

"_**Enough," Violet said softly yet assertively. Her father sighed. "I don't believe you, though," Violet said stubbornly, "Where did you store my spaceship? The attic?" She was being sarcastic, of course.**_

"_**Actually, the storm cellar," Bob said. The three of them walked down to the storm cellar and took the tarp off of the bulky object. Sure enough, it was a small spaceship.**_

"_**So I wasn't going crazy," Violet said.**_

_**There was a letter on the Spaceship. Well, it was technically a spoken, electronic letter, not a hand written letter. The space ship opened and spoke:**_

"**_I am Zar-El, your father. I sent you here to Earth so my uncle's nemesis, Zod, couldn't destroy you when he destroyed our home-planet, Krypton. Male Kryptonians get their powers around five and then get a few more when they are older; female Kryptonians, however, are far more powerful. They get a power or two when they are five, but around age 13 or 14 invulnerability;, tremendous strength, speed, and hearing; x-ray vision and fire vision and more will start to develop, and will increase in potential as you mature. I have placed you in a family where having powers is not a foreign concept. In time, you will have to fulfill your destiny." The space ship closed. Violet stood there, her mouth open and in shock. Neither Violet, Helen, nor Bob had known that Dash had snuck up behind them and had been listening the whole time. When Violet turned around, he started laughing and saying, "You're an alien, you're an alien!"_**

"_**Shut up!" Violet said.**_

_**Helen spoke firmly. "You can't tell anyone about this, Dash. It has to remain completely secret, you understand?"**_

"_**Yes," Dash nodded.**_

_**Violet decided that later that day she would test out her abilities; see how much she could do so far.**_

_**She smiled. She wasn't normal, but at least she wasn't crazy.**_


	4. Chapter 4

**_Violet realized that there was one thing missing. Her parents hadn't told her who her cousin was, or where he lived. 'Adoptive cousin,' Violet mentally corrected herself. Violet ran down to the loft and stared at the "spaceship" with wide eyes. Before, she had known she was different. But now…she couldn't put it in words. It was too much to take in all at once. She was an alien. She was an alien from a planet she had never even heard about; a planet not even part of the nine-planet solar system they taught at school. She was one of the unknown. She had thought she was a freak before; she had hated her powers before; but this took it to a whole different level. An alien. Who could possibly love an alien? Not that she was thinking about love right now; that was something that was so far away that she feared she would never be able to reach it. Was the only answer really to be alone? Was the only answer really to lie?_**

**_Violet shook her head frustrated. That was all there was. It was all she could go by. Violet stared at the spaceship, suddenly frightened. What exactly could she do? Zar-El had listed "some" of the powers she was supposed to develop, but Violet was scared of becoming the powerful being that her dead biological father said Kryptonians were. Invulnerable. Invincible. What would happen, then, if there were Kryptonians out there who weren't good?….Kryptonians set out to destroy, conquer, and rule….Kryptonians who cared about their own money and power than doing the right thing? What would happen then? Would they just win, take over the feeble minds and bodies surrounding them? Can it really be that…..wrong? But the note said she was the last Kryptonian. Well, not exactly, but it implied it, right? So, she was the last of a forgotten species, a forgotten race. So at least she didn't have to worry about her enemies overpowering her; that is, as soon as she made enemies of her own._**

**_People say that their lives are run based on their friends but they are lying. Friends don't run your life; enemies do. Friends don't make you who you are; enemies do. If a person is in a group and everyone is doing the same thing, you don't know who any of the people are. But if there is one person up against another person, you know clearly who both of them are. They are separate, yet joined in the sense that the concept of enemies creates balance. Sure, there are "heroes and villains" but really it is deeper than that. If there is no balance in the world, anybody could get out of control._**

_**Violet ran out of the storm cellar and realized that she could run as fast as…no, faster than…her brother. 'He's gonna be upset,' Violet thought to herself. Her brother was competitive. Unlike Violet, he was thrilled by his power (singular) and wished he could brag about it, but wasn't allowed. He didn't want to be normal; he loved being "super". Didn't he see that the whole picture was so overrated? Didn't he see that it was more of a burden or a curse than a gift?**_

**_Violet sighed and opened the door to her house and walked in. She would go up to her room; where else would she go? She had no place to go. Not that she cared. She was alone in the world. She always would be, because there was no one in the world like her. She was the last daughter of a fallen species; a species that destroyed themselves. Is that what will happen to Earth, years and years in the future? 'Will we destroy ourselves?' Violet silently wondered._**

"_**Vi! Come down for dinner!" Violet heard her mother calling.**_

"_**I'm not hungry right now, Mom," Violet called out. And she wasn't. How could she eat, when this fear was consuming her whole being?**_

_**And then she realized that she had to be the one. She had to be the one to stop Earth from suffering Krypton's terrible fate. With all of her strength, and with all of her energy, she had to do for the Earthlings what they were afraid to do for themselves. She had to save them. Before, she had taken all the "hero" stuff for granted, but now she understood it.**_

_**Because if one civilization could destroy themselves, whose to say love and war and hate couldn't do the exact same thing to Earth?**_

_**That is, unless someone stopped it.**_

_**Was it worth the sacrifice?**_

_**Violet closed her eyes and listened to the silent whispers surrounding her. But something was still missing. She was still alone.**_


	5. Chapter 5

**_At school the next day, Violet was quiet as usual. But something was different. She felt stronger, because of the power she held inside. It had woken up, after being trapped inside of her for thirteen years. She felt that even though she was still alone, she was finally free. And she wasn't crazy. The barefoot kid was real, even if he didn't go to this school or any school. And Violet had heard what he had said. She knew she wasn't supposed to hear it. "The game is on." What in the world was that supposed to mean? Violet stared at the green chalkboard, not really reading what the biology teacher was writing, not really listening to what he was saying. In her mind she was blanking out, her head spinning with ideas and realizations._**

_**And in reality, Violet realized, to her, all of the biology crap was bogus. Don't get her wrong, she liked school; she did her best; and she got straight A's. But her passion had never been in the math's and the sciences, even though they came extremely easier to her (now she understood why; she had a Kryptonian brain). She mindlessly did her schoolwork, not really caring about the content; just caring about the performance. Except for English. Each poem or essay she wrote, she carefully crafted it based on what she felt like her soul was screaming to be said. But now, sitting in the biology classroom, she realized why she had always hated it. It was the biology of foreign beings; humans. But Violet was Kryptonian; she was an alien; a being no one knew anything about. If only the teacher realized how little he really knew.**_

_**The bell finally rang. If any more time had passed, Violet would have died from boredom and apathy, if she could have. Her next class was English. They were assigned to write a poem about any core emotion:**_

_**I'm sitting here stranded**_

_**I think I'm falling apart**_

_**Because no one knows what's hiding inside my heart**_

_**Hold on with a broken wing**_

_**Maybe one day I'll wake up and be able to fly**_

_**I wouldn't be that surprised**_

_**Because I've always been the one who's different**_

_**The one locked inside**_

_**And I wonder if there's anyone else out there**_

_**Quite like me**_

_**I wonder,**_

_**Even though I'm stuck inside this mindless apathy**_

_**Blinded, falling apart, all alone,**_

_**Is there a chance**_

_**That someone will hear my call and realize**_

_**That they are the same?**_

_**I'm sitting here stranded**_

_**And I still don't know**_

_**If there's anyone else like me**_

_**But destiny has to take me somewhere**_

_**God has to have plans for me**_

_**Is there any other choice?**_

_**I'm sitting here stranded**_

_**And I'm starting to wonder if you can even hear me,**_

_**Because I can hear you and you're screaming.**_

_**You're so different from me**_

_**But maybe, just maybe, we're the same inside.**_

_**I'm sitting here, stranded,**_

_**Apathy burning my soul, corroding my heart.**_

_**Sometimes I find the courage to ask you,**_

_**Will this be forever?**_

_**Will I be alone forever?**_

_**But, of course, Violet couldn't turn in her real poem; it gave away too many of her emotions. It peeled off too many layers of her masquerade. So she wrote another one; that was just as deep, but better, because it wasn't all sad and true. She turned in the second one, and tucked the real one inside the pocket of her three-ring binder. She closed her binder. No one would ever see it. When she got home, she would put it with her stock of all of her poems that she had ever written; the ones she had never turned in; the ones she had never (and never would) show to anybody.**_

**_And when she left school that day, the only thing on her mind was the barefoot kid and who he could possibly be. Where was he now, and what "game" was he started? What did it all mean? What did he know about her? And why was he here? What was his secret?_**

_**Violet ran home, getting there in about a second. When she got home, she stood inside and stared at the ceiling. Then she ran straight up to her room to write, because she had so much to say.**_


	6. Chapter 6

**The next day Violet decided to walk home, so she had time to think about things. On her way home she saw that strange, bare-footed kid again. She could have sworn that she saw him turn around and stare at her, but her mind must have been playing tricks on her. She continued to walk home, gazing at the fading green grass and the dreary gray sky. It was probably going to rain soon. Violet liked the rain, though. She felt at one with it, like her soul was in complete, quiescent harmony. But the misty gray clouds wouldn't budge; no rain fell down today. Violet closed her eyes and pictured a perfect universe. She saw nothing.**

**When she opened her eyes, she saw the bare-foot kid again. Was he following her or something? His body was partially hidden by the trees, but it was obvious that it was him. For a second Violet wondered if she should confront him, but then decided that it would be best that she didn't. She tried to push his image out of her mind, out of her head, but it wouldn't go away. When she closed her eyes and ran almost as fast as the speed of sound, she couldn't see him anymore, but she couldn't stop thinking about him.**

**Was he following her? She opened her eyes and of course he wasn't there, because there was no way he could run as fast as she could. That was a relief. But there was another problem: she had underestimated her speed, and she _definitely _wasn't in the town she lived in…how fast had she run? How powerful was she really? All of a sudden she saw people passing by her, and she saw them in flashes. She saw them in different colors that they really were, and all of a sudden she got a weird headache and she could see their skeletons. She was on the merge of panicking but at least she knew she wasn't crazy. But being an alien wasn't much worse.**

"**Are you alright?" someone asked her.**

**Violet guessed that she probably did look upset. She probably _looked_ crazy, or at least like she was the victim of some horrible crime or tragedy. Her face was pale, almost translucent, aghast, and her eyes were mesmerized in a trancelike gaze. She looked like she had just seen a ghost. A spirit. It wasn't really that far from the truth.**

"**Where am I?" she asked in a panicky voice. She looked around again. She didn't recognize anyone. A boy who looked like he was probably two or three years older than her was standing by her side. He had dark bushy hair and emerald eyes.**

**He was talking but she couldn't hear anything. She listened to the wavelengths resonating inside her own soul. She couldn't make anything out. She didn't know who she was. She was an alien but what was an alien?**

**What was her soul?**

"**Are you okay?" the boy asked.**

"**Um, yeah…." Violet said nonchalantly. Her voice came from a distance. She wasn't really there. **

"**Where am I?" she asked, again.**

**This time she forced herself to actually listen to what the boy was saying.**

**He didn't even say, "I already told you," or something rude and arrogant like that.**

"**You're in Smallville, Kansas," he said.**

"**Kansas?! But I live in Florida. I was just ru…."**

**But then she shut her mouth, almost too late. She realized that she had almost given away her secret.**

"**Never mind," she said hastily, trying to cover up her error.**

**But the boy could tell something was up. She could see it in his eyes.**

"**What's your name?" he asked (as if she was some fragile child who was the victim of some horrendous crime).**

**She wasn't sure if she should tell him the truth, or lie. She wondered what _he_ would do….you know, if he had a secret like hers. But she decided that him knowing her name wouldn't do any harm. Well, not her real name. Just the name the Parrs gave. Not her real name, Kara Zar-El. But what if she told the truth?**

**Well, impending disaster is what if.**

"**Violet," she said, and realized that Violet _was_ her real name, because it was the name the family who loved her and took care of her gave her.**

"**How did you get here, if you live in Florida?" he asked.**

"**I don't know," Violet said.**

"**Did anything happen to you? Because you looked panicked, like something happened to you," he said.**

"**No, nothing happened…" Violet said (while thinking, other than my powers getting out of control and running too fast….)**

"**You're lying," he said, "I can tell."**

**All of a sudden his phone rang. He answered it.**

"**Oh, hi, Chloe," he said. Then his face got all distorted and worried and he said, 'Oh, what's wrong? Where are you? I'll be right there."**

**(A/N: it's in season two or three of Smallville; so Chloe doesn't know his secret yet. Sorry if I made it sound like she does).**

**Violet decided to activate her super-hearing and listen in on the conversation.**

**Chloe said, "No, it's nothing urgent. Nothing life-threatening. It's just….meet me at the torch."**

"**What? Why? School's over. Why are you still there?" he asked.**

"**It's Lana…."**

"**What happened to Lana?"**

"**Nothing happened to Lana…it's just, I saw her do something….a car ran into her and the car exploded, smashed to slitherings…..I think she's a meteor freak or something…."**

"**Omg!"**

**Violet was so confused, listening in.**

**But maybe this Lana person was Kryptonian like she was…**

**Maybe there were more Kryptonians on Earth than she had thought….**

**And maybe they all lived in Smallville…..**

**To be continued…..**

**(mwahhaaahaaa…I'm leaving it open ended like this; I'll update once I have a total of ten more reviews from ten different people!!!)**


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